Island of the Dead, page 11
“I do not think you’ll fit through there, Einar,” Fhad said, pointing at the sewer grate, “and I am certain that I won’t.”
Einar shrugged. “That’s the part of the plan I hadn’t figured out yet. Does anyone—”
Above them, there was a horrible, splintering crash as the doors were breached. The roar of the mob echoed. The servant’s door began to shake and thrum.
“New plan,” Einar said. “The rest of you go down into the sewer. Fhad and I will stay here and fight.”
“Speak for yourself, barbarian.” Fhad pointed at the ceiling with the carving knife he’d selected as a weapon. “I’ll not take my chances with a mob. I’ve seen the fate of those who have tried.”
“Then you’ll lose quite a bit of flesh squeezing through that opening,” Einar replied.
Fhad shrugged. “I may lose skin, but I won’t lose my life. You may not have anything to live for, Einar, but I told you, I have a family to return to.”
Footsteps pounded upstairs, and angry shouts echoed. Behind them, the servant’s door continued to rattle in its frame as it was battered from the other side. Einar quickly studied the assemblage. Like himself, one of the other servants—the matronly woman—had chosen a meat cleaver. The other three servants stood empty-handed, their expressions panicked—except for the mute boy who clutched his fireplace poker and looked determined. Chuy and Mathias each held table legs. Lemiah was armed with a long fork, and Chinsalel held two brightly colored crystals, one in each fist.
Einar pointed at the mute youth. “Lemiah, what is this lad’s name?”
Lemiah glanced at the boy and then looked to Chinsalel, who simply shrugged and returned his attention to the servant’s door. Lemiah turned back to Einar. “I am afraid that I do not know.”
“How can you not know the names of your own servants? Your people?”
“Our village may be small, but our population is not. I can’t be expected to—”
“Fhad,” Einar said, turning his back on the Atlantean politician. “Help me with the grate.”
The two knelt over the opening, gripped the iron bars, and then lifted the grate from its place. Einar cringed at the foul stench wafting from the hole. They dropped the grate onto the floor with a clang, muted only by the sounds of destruction from the banquet hall as the rioters rampaged.
Lemiah turned his gaze to the ceiling and shuddered. “It sounds like they are destroying everything! Madness…”
“Into the sewer,” Einar commanded. “Mathias, you lead the way!”
“M-me? But I—”
“You are perfectly capable of leading this lot. Now don’t argue with me. Go!”
Nodding, Mathias clambered down into the hole, followed by the mute boy, then the rest of the servants, and then Chuy. The portly merchant had to suck in his gut to fit through the opening. He paused and looked up at Einar and Fhad.
“It’s a tight fit, but if I can make it, you can, too. Don’t tarry, gentlemen. I’ve grown to like you both.”
Einar nodded. “Go. Lemiah, you’re next.”
As the Atlantean politician approached the hole, the servant’s door shattered in an explosion of timbers. Simultaneously, footsteps and shouts sounded from the stairs leading to the main floor.
“This is it,” Fhad yelled. “They are upon us!”
“Not quite.” Chinsalel stepped forward, planted his feet, and threw one of the stones at the marauders pouring through the ruined doorway. The crystal struck the floor in front of them and exploded in a thick cloud of sparks and oily, billowing smoke. He spun and tossed the other crystal toward the stairwell. It did the same. The mob cried out from both directions, recoiling and coughing.
“Magic,” Einar muttered.
“Again, not quite,” Chinsalel replied, “but it bought us some time. Precious little, but enough. The smoke will take minutes to clear. Anyone venturing into it before then will lose consciousness. Try not to breathe it.”
Einar eyed the clouds warily. Then he grinned. “Into the sewer with you, politicians!”
Lemiah hurried down into the opening, followed by Chinsalel. Einar loomed over the hole, staring down. It seemed even narrower now, having watched Chuy struggle to fit through it. He glanced at Fhad. The bigger man’s attention was affixed to a jar atop the counter.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I have an idea,” Fhad replied. “Yon jar is full of grease droppings collected from the meat as it cooked.”
“And?”
“We could use it to lubricate ourselves. If we discard this slave garb, we might be able to squeeze through.”
“We can certainly try,” Einar agreed.
Both men hurriedly stripped down to their loincloths, dirty and stained from countless days spent at sea. Then they reached into the jar and rubbed handfuls of warm grease on their skin, slathering themselves from head to toe. The substance stank, but not nearly as bad as the air wafting from the sewer. When they were finished, their bodies glistened.
Fhad wrinkled his nose. “It feels unpleasant, but I am glad to be free of those slave rags, finally.”
“Aye.” Einar eyed the smoke on both sides of the kitchen. It still hung thick in the air but was mostly stationary. He glimpsed a few townspeople sprawled on the floor, rendered unconscious as Chinsalel had said they would be. The rest of the mob hung back, out of sight but horribly audible, yelling curses and threats.
Fhad gestured at the opening. “You go first.”
Einar shook his head. “No, you.”
“I am bigger than you, my friend. If I get stuck, you will be trapped.”
“And what if I get stuck?” Einar asked.
Fhad smiled. “Then I shall stomp on your head and shoulders until you are through.”
Einar stood over the opening, verified that no one was standing below him, and then dropped his meat cleaver down the hole. It landed with a splat rather than a thud. The foul stench wafted upward again, but it was more tolerable now, given that he was lathered in equally noxious-smelling grease. Nose wrinkling, he crouched, let his legs dangle through the hole, and then lowered himself. His waist slid through easily enough, but his chest filled the opening. Grunting, Einar twisted and wriggled. The sides scraped against his skin, rubbing it raw. Then, he was through. His bare feet stood in a warm, wet, sludge-like substance that squelched between his toes and pooled around his ankles. The change in light was sudden, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The sewer tunnel stretched in a nearly straight line. A circle of light shone down from the kitchen, but otherwise, the space was dark. He glimpsed the others ahead of him, huddled shadows against a deeper black.
“Come on, barbarian,” Chuy called. “The less time we spend down here the better.”
Einar retrieved his weapon and glanced back up at Fhad. “Toss down my boots.”
Fhad dangled them over the opening and then let go. “They are barely boots. There’s not much holding them together at this point. You’d do better in your bare feet.”
“Not in this muck.” Einar quickly slipped on the footwear. With a nod, he motioned at the big man to come down. Then he moved aside, venturing deeper into the tunnel. It was tall enough that he could almost stand at his full height, but the top of his scalp scraped against the ceiling as he shuffled along, so that he ended up stooping. Dirt and spiderwebs stuck to him with each movement.
“You’ll have to duck your head,” he called.
Fhad’s legs slipped through the opening, followed by his waist. Then, the same thing that had happened to Einar occurred to him. He became stuck at chest level. He struggled and twisted but with no success. He called out to them, but his voice was muffled and strained.
“Hold on.” Einar grabbed the larger man’s feet and began to pull. Grunting with the effort, he called out to the others. “Help me with him!”
Being closest, Lemiah and Chinsalel hurried back to him and helped. The three men tugged and yanked, grunting and straining with the effort. It was difficult to hold on to his greased appendages. Fhad moved an inch. Then another. His legs flailed in between their attempts.
“Come on, you bastard!”
Einar gritted his teeth, wrapped his hands tightly around Fhad’s ankles, and jerked. Fhad let out a muffled scream, and then he was through. All four collapsed into the foulness, sputtering and panting. Lemiah and Chinsalel stumbled to their feet, looking with dismay at their robes, now splattered with shit and piss and waste from the kitchen. Einar stood and then thrust out a hand to Fhad, helping him up. The big man’s chest and biceps were red and raw in places where his skin had sloughed away against the sides of the opening.
“I’ll be okay,” Fhad said, noticing his concern.
“You have open wounds, and we’re traipsing through a sewer. You’ll need to clean yourself as soon as we are able, lest you get infected.”
“We all have wounds, my friend.”
“That may be, but yours are fresher.”
“Einar… in the last day we have survived the brutality of a slave galleon, a shipwreck, a horde of walking dead men, giant ants, and now whatever this is.” He waved his hand, indicating the village above them. “I doubt my gods would let an infection kill me after such hardships. I am meant to return home to my family. That will happen. The gods will see me through.”
“I wish that I had your faith.”
“If you make it through all of this alive then I shall teach you about my gods, and you will share my faith.”
“And perhaps I will even be of a mind to listen. But for now, give me a boost.”
Fhad cupped his hands together and crouched. Einar used him to climb up to the opening and felt around until his hands found the grating. Then he pulled it back into place and dropped down.
“Mathias,” he called, “lead us onward!”
The procession headed forward into the reeking darkness, leaving the circle of light behind.
SIX
Both Einar and Fhad continued to duck to avoid scraping their heads along the ceiling. The dangling ends of frayed spiderwebs, disturbed by the passage of those at the front of the party, brushed against their shoulders. Einar felt the soft tickle of an arachnid as it skittered across his arm. He swatted the spider with his free hand, reducing it to paste on his palm.
The stench of the sewers was not overpowering, but it was persistently present—a thick miasma of human waste, offal, and mildew. Einar’s nostrils began to burn and itch. Although he couldn’t see, he assumed he was inhaling mold spores. He tried breathing through his mouth instead and grimaced at the air’s foul taste.
The tunnel was anything but silent and as the blackness around them deepened, Einar sorted through the competing sounds. Water dripped and trickled all around them. Above their heads came the muffled shouts and the stomping of countless feet. Ahead of him, the Atlantean council members and the servants panted and wheezed, either in fear or exertion, or both.
“How long until they figure out where we went, do you think?” Fhad asked.
“Not long,” Einar said. “And while some will give chase, I’m sure, they might be clever enough to attempt to head us off. We need to reach the exit before they do. Step it up, Mathias!”
“I’m going as fast as I can,” the youth called. “I can’t see in the dark, you know.”
The group continued on—the mute boy and the other four servants padded along behind Mathias, followed by Chuy, Lemiah, and Chinsalel. They moved in a mostly straight line, and eventually, the tunnel began to lighten again. After a moment, Einar saw why. They were approaching another grating—this one located outside of the domed citadel.
“Hold,” he whispered, and then tapped Chinsalel on the shoulder. “What is above us?”
The Atlantean shrugged. “One of the streets. I cannot be sure of which from our vantage point.
“Mathias, do you see movement above?”
“No, Einar. But I can hear them.”
“We should all slide past it as quickly and quietly as possible,” Einar said. “We don’t want to be spotted. Go.”
The group did as he commanded, swiftly passing beneath the grate. No alarm was raised at their passage, and they continued. Einar glanced up at the sky as he passed beneath the opening.
“Dawn will be upon us soon.”
“Aye,” Fhad whispered. “What will it show us?”
“It will make us easier to track. We need to hurry.”
As they crept forward, the near-total darkness returned. Then, they heard a new sound behind them—echoes of cries and splashing footsteps.
“They’ve figured out where we went,” Einar warned. “Don’t run. The sound of that will give us away. But hurry.”
“But we can’t see,” said the matronly servant.
“You don’t need to see to use your legs,” Einar responded.
They plunged headlong into the murk for an indeterminable amount of time. Occasionally, the darkness was interrupted by dim moonlight shining through the grates they passed beneath. The sounds of pursuit continued, but due to the echoes, Einar couldn’t determine if their pursuers were gaining on them or not. Eventually, the tunnel turned sharply and then sloped downward.
“Watch your footing,” Mathias warned. “It gets slippery ahead.”
The mute boy hooted in confirmation.
“We’re nearing the end,” Lemiah said with confidence. “We made it!”
“We haven’t made anything,” Einar replied. “Don’t get confident before the fact. That’s how you get killed.”
Light returned to the sewer, gradually at first, but then faster. Einar peered over the heads of those in front of him and saw a large, round grate. Mathias and the mute boy clutched at the bars, trying to move them. Their efforts were to no avail. Panting, the former soldier glanced back at Einar.
“We’ll need you and Fhad.”
Nodding, Einar strode ahead. Fhad followed quickly behind him. The others drew themselves against the tunnel walls, making way. Outside the opening was a meadow. Einar wondered if it was the same one that they had traipsed through earlier. A line of trees indicating the start of the forest stood only a few yards away from the opening. Judging from how the ground was sloped, the sewer terminated at the bottom of a small hill. It was impossible to determine anything else, however, given the gloom.
Einar gripped the iron bars and shook them. They rattled in their moorings, and flakes of rust covered his knuckles.
“It’s loose. Fhad, give me a hand.”
The two men grunted and strained, and the bars slowly buckled. Mortar and metal groaned as they pushed, and then it gave way with a loud crash that reverberated through the tunnel.
“That’s it,” Chuy cried. “Good job, my friends! Night air will never taste sweeter.”
The group hurriedly stumbled out of the sewer and stood there panting and blinking. Einar took a deep breath and held it. Then, as he exhaled, he glanced around, trying to get his bearings.
“Oh no,” Mathias moaned.
Einar followed the youth’s gaze, and his breath caught in his throat. He’d been correct that they were in a hollow at the bottom of a small hill. The hilltop itself housed one of the black obelisks. A host of enraged Atlanteans poured from behind the barrier, spilling out into the meadow. And between his group and their pursuers stood a host of shuffling dead men—the reanimated corpses of the soldiers and slaves from the shipwreck.
Both groups turned toward them, and a horrendous cry went up from throats both living and dead.
“We should have stayed on the ship,” Chuy muttered.
Einar spat on the grass. “Better to die a free man than to die as a slave at the bottom of the ocean.”
“Better not to die at all, barbarian.”
Planting his feet wide, Einar clutched the meat cleaver. His grip was loose, given the amount of grease still coating his body. He inched closer to Chuy and hurriedly wiped his free hand on the merchant’s clothing. Then he switched his weapon to that hand and wiped his other palm, as well.
Chuy sputtered. “I am not a dishrag, Einar!”
“You fight like one.” Einar winked at him and then turned back to their foes.
The Atlanteans had paused, staring in fright and astonishment at the dead. The zombies hesitated as well, slowly turning toward the villagers, and then back to the escapees. While the former made not-so-hushed murmurs and gasps, the zombies were mostly quiet, save for an occasional grunt or moan.
“Start retreating to the forest,” Einar said, “but don’t run, and don’t turn your backs on them.”
The dead focused their attention on Fhad, staring at the big man’s still-bleeding wounds. One of them raised its lone arm—the other having been torn out of its socket—and pointed at him. The creature’s gore-stained armor jangled and glistened. It took a faltering step forward, and then the others began to follow.
“Fhad’s injuries,” Mathias said. “They’re drawn to the fresh blood.”
“Easy now.” Einar took a slow step backward, not taking his eyes off their enemies. “Nice and easy. Don’t run. Don’t show alarm. Don’t show them your backs. Everybody just move toward the trees. Fhad, I fear Mathias is correct. Be ready. If they charge, they’ll come at you first.”
Instead of replying, the bigger man merely raised his carving knife and narrowed his eyes.
The group retreated, inch by excruciating inch. The dead plodded forward, all of them now focused on Fhad. Beyond them, further up the hill, the mob stared in confusion and disarray. Then, Mozulath pushed his way out of the crowd and stood before them, staring down into the meadow.
“That bastard will try to gain control of the crowd again,” Einar said. “If he does…”
“People,” Mozulath shouted, raising his sword and pointing downhill, “do you see now what the outsiders have brought upon us? It is just as we warned. Do you see what dark magics they’ve brought to our island? The dead walk!”
The crowd echoed his assessment, murmuring with urgency and awe. At the sound of Mozulath’s voice, the zombies turned back to the villagers again.
“That’s it,” Einar said. “Now’s our chance. Go! Into the forest! Let them fight each other.”
